The Falcons' final game in the semifinals had begun — one last chance to claim their ticket to the Finals. The night before, the Phoenix had already sealed theirs, dominating the fourth game with a victory that set the entire arena ablaze. Now, all eyes were on Drake and his team.
From the opening quarter, Drake was unstoppable. His every move was calculated — every pass sharp, every shot sinking clean through the net. The crowd roared his name as he led the Falcons like a man possessed.
"This is his night," one commentator said in disbelief. "Drake is playing like he's ready to steal the crown from the Shooting Star himself."
By the time the buzzer sounded, the scoreboard declared it: the Falcons were heading to the Finals. The gymnasium exploded in cheers. Drake, drenched in sweat, stood under the blinding lights with a smirk of triumph.
During the post-game interview, he faced the camera head-on.
"Tell Dranred to get ready," he said, confidence dripping from every word. "The Phoenix won't win a single game against us. This is the season the Shooting Star finally burns out."
Peter switched off the TV with a sigh. "That guy's so damn confident," he muttered.
Across the room, Dranred leaned back on the couch, expression unreadable. "He's earned the right to be," he said quietly. "Did you see how he played tonight?"
Peter frowned. "I did — and that's what worries me. They're coming for you. There's talk they've got a new player just to take you down."
Dranred gave a faint smile. "Knowing them, I wouldn't be surprised. They don't bluff."
"Then why are you still so calm?" Peter asked, incredulous. "They just declared on national TV that they're going to destroy you!"
Dranred stood, stretching his arms as if he hadn't heard the question. "If they're preparing for the Finals," he said, glancing toward the door, "then so should we."
Peter stared after him, speechless. "You're impossible," he muttered as Dranred walked away.
"I'm going to sleep," Dranred called over his shoulder.
Peter shook his head, half-exasperated, half-admiring. "You'd think he doesn't feel pressure at all," he murmured. But deep down, he knew that calm wasn't indifference. It was a focus.
The kind of silence that comes before the storm.
"What's this?" Estelle asked, her brows furrowing as James handed her three glossy tickets.
"Tickets to the first game of the Finals," James said, unable to hide the excitement in his voice.
"Tickets?" Rosette echoed, her tone curious.
"Yes," James replied with a grin. "You said you wanted to experience a live game, right? So, I bought these for us. I even got one for Bryan — make sure you invite him."
Estelle looked at him suspiciously. "You've changed your mind all of a sudden? What happened? You were completely against this before."
James hesitated, then took a slow breath. "The truth is… these past few weeks, I've been undergoing physical therapy. Drake introduced me to the therapist who helped him recover from his injury."
He reached into his bag and pulled something out — a crisp white jersey, neatly folded. When Estelle saw the name Christopher printed across the back, her eyes widened.
"James…" she whispered, stunned.
"Here," he said, taking Rosette's hand and placing the jersey in her palm.
"What's this?" she asked softly, running her fingers across the embroidered letters.
"My own jersey," James said, smiling proudly. "I'm officially part of the Falcons. I'll be playing in the Finals."
Rosette gasped, her face breaking into a radiant smile. "Really? That's amazing, James! Congratulations!" she said, her voice trembling with excitement. For a moment, she forgot everything else — even who his opponent would be.
Estelle, however, wasn't smiling. "Are you sure your legs can handle that? You just started therapy."
"I can play," James said confidently. "Not for the whole game, but enough. Just being able to step on that court again — that's already a victory for me."
Estelle's tone softened, but her eyes were serious. "You do realize this means you'll be facing Dranred, right?"
Rosette froze. She hadn't even thought of that until Estelle said it aloud.
James's expression hardened. "That's exactly why I'm doing this. This game will prove who truly belongs on that court — not someone who plays without heart."
Rosette's fingers tightened around the jersey. Pride and unease swirled inside her chest. She wanted to celebrate her brother's return — but part of her ached at the thought of what it meant.
Soon, the court would no longer be a dream shared between two friends…
It would be the battlefield where they would finally face each other — not as brothers in spirit, but as rivals.
Dranred stood outside his car, his eyes fixed on the Falcon Gym entrance. He had been waiting for nearly half an hour. He knew James would never agree to meet him if he asked directly — that's why he sent Peter to find out where and when the Falcons practiced. When James finally emerged, his expression hardened the moment he saw him.
"What are you doing here?" James snapped, his tone sharp and mocking. "Scouting your opponent now? Didn't think you'd stoop that low."
Dranred raised his hands slightly, calm but firm. "Please. You know I don't do that. I face my opponents head-on. I'm not here to spy."
"Then what do you want?" James shot back. "You didn't come here just to exchange pleasantries."
Dranred reached into his coat and handed him a sealed envelope. "I came to give you this."
James glanced at it but didn't take it. "What is it?"
"It's about Rosette," Dranred said quietly. "You know I've been helping her with her condition. I took her to a specialist I know. That envelope contains the test results — they found a perfect cornea donor. If we schedule the operation soon—"
"Stop." James's voice cut through him like a blade. He slapped the envelope away, papers spilling onto the pavement. "I told you before, and I'll say it again — I don't need your help. I won't accept anything from you. You think you can buy forgiveness for what your family did?"
"James—"
"No!" James's voice trembled with fury. "Don't you dare use Rosette as your excuse! You don't get to say her name like that. Don't talk about family — you don't even know what that means. A real family doesn't turn their back on one another."
Dranred's jaw tightened. "I'm doing this because I care about her — about all of you. Whether you admit it or not, we were—"
"Don't you ever call us family." James's eyes blazed. "You have your family. And it's not us. If you really want forgiveness, tell the truth about what happened that night. Maybe then I'll think about it — maybe."
He moved past Dranred, his shoulder brushing hard against him. But before he got too far, he stopped.
"Oh, and by the way," he said coldly, not even looking back, "Estelle's getting married. You'll get an invitation."
Then he walked away, leaving Dranred standing in silence, fists clenched at his sides. He looked down at the scattered documents — the proof of Rosette's chance to see again — fluttering at his feet. No matter how pure his intentions were, he realized, they would never be enough for James. Not yet.